Look At This Fucking Book.nu

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She’d been holed up for days in this nest, wondering when relief would come. All she had was a bundle of Luna bars and Michael Herr’s Dispatches.

“War is hell,” she thought as she posed dramatically with her hand grenade. The futility of existence and her choices themselves overwhelmed her.

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God. Dammit.

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She took the opportunity to take a picture, thusly stating her vibrant opinion that Facebook should, indeed, die. It was the perfet outfit to demonstrate just how fed up she was with this social media bullshit. 

Yes, finally Sam’s shirt had arrived in the mail, a year and a half too late to be relevant.

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“HEY. THIS IS A TRAIN. TRACK. GET THE FUCK OFF BEFORE YOU ARE RUN OVER. GO HOME AND GET YOUR TEETH FIXED.”

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Vanessa, no. Go back into your room and change for the Church Social, you’re not going out looking like J.K. Rowling’s whore neice.

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“JESSICAAAAA.”

The cry echoed throughout the tenement building.

Shit, Jessica thought. Grandma’s up. She would have a hard time explaining, again, why she’d been tearing up her Grandmother’s furniture covers, attempting to make clothing for herself.

“Why are you wearing my couch cover?” her Grandmother asked as she ambled down the steps.

Grammy Burna has no fashion sense, Jessica decided. But her couches do…

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Edna was worried. That morning she had noticed a certain Jane Jetson flavor to her hair that seemed unnatural. However, she put on her cardigan and floral tights and ventured forth to find a job in the publishing world.

“Somebody has GOT to appreciate my BA from Columbia in Creative Writing,” she thought.

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Look ma’am, this is the practice room of Guitar Center. There is to be no photography or horse play. Call your parents and please leave.

“Mom look! A bird lady! Do you think she lives there?”

“Oh of course not son. She probably lives in a comfortable loft in midtown. She’s just down here in the Bronx to take pictures of herself wearing Bea Arthur’s hand-me downs to put on the internet.”

“Why would she do that mom?”

“Because she’s crazy son. Because she’s a crazy bird lady.”

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All hope is not lost in my world even the doves are blingin

Uh, ma’am, don’t mean to be rude but this is the private property of the Pentacostal Holy-Rollers Third First Church of the Christian Blood and well, you just cain’t park your bike and hussy heels here. Next thing you know you’ll be all gussied up and wantin’ to date a WOMAN! HA! Now git, git out of here.

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All I wanna do is ride bikes with you